19. The Friendship Strategy
19
THE FRIENDSHIP STRATEGY
Layla
I stay at the kitchen island the whole time, making calls and sending emails. Nick paces by the living room window, and it’s hard not to watch him. I have a thing for the way he walks.
Not helpful, libido.
But in my libido’s defense, have you seen him in those tailored pants? That snug shirt? That undone tie?
As he chats with college friends, tech gurus, colleagues, and the like, he progressively tugs on the maroon silk.
During the first call, he fidgeted with it.
During the third, he loosened it.
During the fifth, he unknotted it.
Now during his eighth or ninth call, as I’m texting with Raven about her designer donation, he’s undoing the fabric.
I steal glances in between texts as his nimble fingers undo the silky material.
“It’ll be great to see you there, Trav. And no, I will not go easy on you on the basketball court next week. I will never go easy on you,” he says, then ends the call with an amused shake of his head.
“You play basketball?” I ask, setting my phone on the counter. I’m far too interested in this tidbit about Nick.
“Pickup basketball,” he says.
“I figured as much.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, I didn’t think it was pro ball.”
Dropping the tie on the back of the couch, he laughs. “I mean why did you figure I’d play pickup.”
“You seem like the kind of guy who strides onto a court when he damn well pleases, trash talks his friends, and takes their money when he beats them.”
Nick’s eyebrows rise as he crosses the room. He likes that compliment. “Thank you.”
I laugh. “What if it wasn’t a compliment, Nick?”
“It was a compliment,” he says, and I like this banter. I’d rather we get along for real.
“Cocky,” I tease.
“And you like it,” he says, then he shakes his head, muttering, “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
He stops at the end of the counter, dragging a hand through his hair, roughly. “I need to do better.”
I wish I could play dumb, but I know what he means. “I think you’re doing fine,” I say.
I mean it. I like this Nick better than the cordial one in the elevator. At least he’s being real. I feel less weird with Real Nick than Cordial Nick. Even though I’m still hot for him.
He deals me an intense stare. “It’s hard,” he says on a sigh, then gestures from him to me.
“It’s hard for me too.” Maybe this charity planning will be easier if we just acknowledge how tough it is to be together when we can’t be together.
“Yeah?” His voice pitches up the slightest bit.
“It is. But we could try to be friends,” I say brightly, offering that as a strategy. A damn good one if I do say so myself.
He snorts. Then the snort turns into a laugh.
“You’re not friends with women?” I ask.
“Of course I am.” His denial comes too quickly, and I must tease him about it.
“Are you though?”
“Yes,” he says, adamant.
“Name one,” I challenge.
He hedges too long, thinking too hard.
I point at him. “Ha. Called it.”
“I’m friends with women,” he says, trying again. “There’s…Eunice at work. She’s a VC.”
“Fine. A work friend,” I say, in a tone that makes it clear colleagues don’t count.
“There’s…” But he’s struggling, even when he snaps his fingers and says, “Danielle. She’s a cool bartender I was buds with when I last lived here. She and her wife are in a pickleball league.”
I sit back in the stool, laughing. “So it’s Eunice from work, and Danielle and her wife from a few years ago.”
“Yes,” he grumbles. “Do you have many guy friends?”
Ha. Who does he think he’s dealing with? “Ethan. He walked me here. We’ve been friends since?—”
“—Grade school,” he says.
His recollection of the details I shared about my friend in Miami makes me feel a little warm and fuzzy for him. Which is also not entirely helpful. But I try to redirect those warm feelings toward friendship.
“David,” I add. “Obviously he’s a very good friend.”
“Yeah, too bad you didn’t mention him in Miami,” he mutters.
Ouch. “Was it? Was it too bad?”
Nick jerks his gaze toward the window, staring too long, then looks back at me, quietly admitting, “You have to know I’m glad you didn’t. Say you know it, Layla.”
Now I’m warmer. Like equator levels. “I know,” I say.
“Good. Because I have no regrets,” he adds, and why does he have to be so damn sexy that I’m aroused again?
This is going to be the hardest charity event I’ve ever planned. Must focus on my new strategy. “So, do you want to be friends with me?”
Nick seems to consider it for a beat. But in the way you consider something that’s your only choice. “We’re kind of stuck doing this. We should try,” he says, amenable.
I extend a hand. “Let’s be friends.”
He clasps my palm in a friendly gesture. But I don’t think friends shake this long, since he doesn’t let go immediately. He curls his fingers around my palm, then runs the pad of his finger along my skin, tracing me, touching me. Like he did early that morning in Miami.
He’s a thief.
But I’m not going to turn him in as he stretches the definition of friendship and curls my toes with one risqué touch.
“Friends,” he says, but I hear five words in that one. I hear I want you so much. More so, I feel it.
So I don’t let go.
But then, I do, missing the sensual connection once it’s broken.
“Friends,” I echo, as I brush my palms along my slacks, like that’ll erase the moment.
A few minutes later, David returns.
I still feel awkward as we recap our work on the auction, but I feel less awkward than I did when I arrived.
If I can be friends with the son, perhaps I can be friends with the father. Besides, it’s safer that way.
A few days later, I’m putting the finishing touches on a smoky eye for the former fashionista in her new shop. The event came together quickly, courtesy of Storm.
I didn’t even have enough time to be nervous. I met the fashion icon moments ago, and she told me to call her Mia.
Now that I’m here, swiping mascara over her lashes, I don’t feel anxious. I only feel confident and strong. I’m in my element as Lola Jones, creating a new look like I once created a new me.
“And after you put on powder, then finally, you apply the mascara. That way you don’t get beige powder all over your beautiful black eyelashes,” I tell the crowd as I finish Mia’s face.
“And you know mascara is sacred,” Mia says, in her warm, honeyed tone, a contrast to her jet-black hair, cascading in finger curls down her back. When I step away to show her off, the icon turns to the assembled crowd packed into her little shop. “Especially when you’re a woman of a certain age,” she stage-whispers, gesturing to her own face, with laugh lines and crinkles at the corners of her eyes. “We forty-something gals need our daily doses of mascara.”
I laugh. “Don’t you mean mascara is for everyone?”
Mia makes an oopsy face then points to me. “What Lola said. A mascara in every purse, makeup bag, medicine cabinet, and home in the world!”
Storm claps from the counter. “Our new rallying cry. Long live mascara.”
Then I answer questions from customers and take turns showing them some of my techniques.
“Thanks, Lola,” a dark-haired teen says, adding in a quiet voice, “Thanks to that video you did a while back, I learned how to cover up some red spots on my face.”
“You are gorgeous,” I tell her.
An older woman chimes in with, “Love your app, Lola. It helped me prep for a job interview. And I got it.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I say.
Lola, Lola, Lola.
It’s so nice to only hear that name. To only hear questions about the present, not the past.
When the event winds down, it’s just Storm, Mia, and me in the store. Mia’s waggling her phone, cooing at the social posts as she rattles off comments, then she stares at me intensely. “This is everyone’s new favorite thing in New York. Say you’ll do more, Lola. Say it. Say it now.”
Storm chuckles. “Give a girl a second to think, Mia.”
Mia taps a watch she doesn’t wear. “There. One second.”
But she had me at hello. “Name the time and place.”
We make plans for another event, then Mia walks with me down the block, dropping her big, bold persona for a beat. “Seriously though. I’d love to find more ways to work together. Maybe we can partner up in a bigger way? I have some ideas,” she says, then shares a few.
“I’d love that. I’ll talk to my business partner.”
When we part, I call Geeta, whose only response is an enthused “hell fucking yes.”
The time the Mia Jane collaboration will take will be worthwhile for another reason too. I’ll have a legit excuse to turn down my mom’s matchmaking efforts.
I’m simply too busy.
After I play tennis with her on Saturday morning, she asks me to join her and Rose for lunch. “We had an idea for you.”
Forget her idea. I’m bristling at the mere mention of Rose. I’ve never bristled over Rose before.
But now I know my mom’s friend is Nick’s ex-wife. In Miami, Nick told me he’d married young, that it wasn’t a good marriage, and that they divorced years ago. Why, then, does my chest feel like it’s on fire? Am I actually jealous of someone Nick hasn’t been with in probably a decade? What is wrong with me?
As I shower and get dressed, I try to put Nick out of my mind. I mentally prep ideas for Mia as I blow out my hair. When I grab my bag from my locker, a woman across the way whispers to a woman next to her. I swear I can hear the words his business partner , then she walked in on it .
I grit my teeth and try to ignore the way I’m a sideshow to the New York elite. I bet they whisper about my mother too, then put on false faces and eat cobb salad with her.
When I leave, I meet their eyes, then smile. They can’t break me. I was broken years ago, and I had to put myself together again.
I did it thanks to Carla, and thanks to my friends. I touch my tattoo for strength as I exit, leaving them in my wake, like I’m a hurricane and they’re the damaged homes.
I join my mom and Rose at the table. Rose takes a sip of Perrier then says, “I hear Kip Cranston’s family is donating a set of golf clubs and golf lessons at their country club to the auction you’re working on with David.”
“And that gave me an idea. Since you and David insist on being just friends, ” my mom chimes in, sketching air quotes, like our friendship is a personal repudiation of her matchmaking attempts.
Rose goes next, breezily suggesting, “Perhaps Kip could be your date to the auction.”
Wow. This is a new tactic. The have-a-friend-make-the-case tactic.
But no. No on so many levels. I’m not attracted to the man. I don’t like to discuss yachts, and country club memberships, and secret societies at Yale.
I’ve got an ace up my sleeve, and I play the hell out of it with a cheery smile. “Thank you for thinking of me, Rose,” I say to the woman I strangely dislike.
“Of course, dear.”
I turn my focus to my mom. “And I’d ordinarily love to, but I’m incredibly busy. I’m doing some collabs with Mia.”
Mom lifts a brow and asks archly, “Oh?”
But I stand my ground. “I like her product and her business practices,” I say, then tell her about my recent event and its potential. Like what it could do for Geeta and me. Especially Geeta and her responsibilities with her dad.
Mom brightens, but I can’t tell if her shift is real or fake. “Lovely. All that work will help you when you come to Beautique,” she says, and the answer is neither real nor fake—just selfish. “I suspect you’ll be more than ready to start as a high-level marketing VP. And just think how proud your father would be if you were working with me.”
I brace myself.
She’d better not say the next thing.
She’d really better not.
“You know your father would have wanted you to,” she adds.
She went there.
The place I can’t argue from. Did my father even say that to her? Was it his dying wish? Or is it hers? I don’t know. I’m afraid she’d break down if I even ask, so I’ve never questioned her. I’ve never told her about the promise I made him either, so I have no choice but to believe her.
I’m about to say thanks but no thanks to the Kip date when she sets a hand on mine, squeezing. “I worry about you, Layla. I want you to be safe. I want you to be with someone who comes from a good family,” she says.
The implication is clear—Dad’s business partner did not come from a good family. Joe McBride was from a rough section of Boston. He was the first in his family to go to college. He had no pedigree.
“Would you do this for me? Meet Kip?” Mom asks in a low voice. Rose has the decency to look away, fidgeting with her pearls.
I want Mom to be happy. I’ve always wanted that. There were so many nights when I was sure she’d never survive the loss of her love, her best friend, her rock. No matter how complicated our relationship is, I want her to find peace and joy in life again. I’ve found it with my friends and with my work. I don’t know if she truly has.
I relent though I don’t give all the way in. “I don’t want a date to the auction. But I’ll have coffee with Kip when I return.”
I haven’t seen her eyes sparkle with so much happiness in years.
Maybe this is a pyrrhic victory, but I’ll take it, especially since she says, “I wish I could be there at the auction, but I have to visit our offices in Los Angeles that week and I’ll be staying for a spa weekend.”
Oh, hello, empty home in the Hamptons. You are mine. “I’ll miss you, but could I use the house that weekend?”
“I had the alarm company test the system last week after the upgrade. It’s the most secure one out there. And you’re always free to use the house,” she says.
That’s always a win in my book, even though I have a date in a few more weeks.
Too bad it’s not with the only man I want to see.